The Satyr

He made it sound like an invitation rather than a command, but it was still an invitation that had to be accepted.

“You have finished your meal. Undress. Unpin your hair. Come with me.”

It was hard to know exactly how to respond. She had taken so much trouble over her appearance. The blue silk dress that matched the ribbon in her hair. Long, blonde hair, half way down her back. Little blue lace gloves, so elegant, and he liked elegance. Perhaps that was the problem. He liked it too much and now he wanted her.

So she put down her knife and fork, patted her lips dry, and stood. Because she wanted him too. Well, it was deeper than that. It wasn’t a purely sexual thing. She wanted to know what his mind had created.

She undressed right down to ribbons and heels, then followed him into the conservatory. It was warm in there. Flowers covered most of the glass and the air was heavy with their scent. Vines crawled on the ironwork. Her feet made little clacking noises on its icy flagstones.

In the centre of the room was a life size statue in sugar-white marble. It was of a Satyr, arms outstretched and fully erect in priapic glory. The face was what struck you. Leery and needy at once.

“Where did you find him?”

“Wonderful, don’t you think? Weighs a ton. I got him for a client but they weren’t so eager when they saw it in real life. Can you guess why?”

She tittered.

“That hotel?”

“Yes.”

“I think I can guess. It might give weekenders ideas.”

“It certainly gave me some.”

“I’m sure.”

Her smile was slow and sordid. She knew that she was beautiful, all slim and curvy and blonde and now naked too.

“Come here.”

He led her forwards and put her hands against those of the statue. Red cords tied her to it, their braided ends dangling like the swags on a curtain. Tight, but not too tight She looked beautiful and obscene, warm flesh against the stone. Worse, there was something sticky coating the marble cock. She felt it because she was at just the right height to abrade herself against the creature's erection. She felt the sting and the chill through her delicate folds.

“Kiss it.”

“Hm? “ For a moment she looked at him, one eyebrow raised as if he was joking. But her master never joked like that. So she tilted her head and pressed her lips against those of the carving. She closed her eyes and pretended. She remembered good lovers and better kisses. She teased it with her tongue and sniggered. She could fake passion. Then she moved her head back and licked her lips.

“Not bad—for a statue. Are you going to hurt me now?”

“I think I should, don't you?”

“Oh, yes.”

He stood behind her. In one hand there was a slim white cane. He addressed her buttocks with it and she wiggled them to entice a reaction. The first blow still came as a surprise. It always did. She opened her mouth and breathed "fuck!"

The second blow followed hard on the heels of the first.

She cried out and jerked herself in response. Her hips moved and she felt as if she was being stroked between the thighs. Caned and stroked at once. Pain and pleasure.

He continued. Each time the woman cried out and her eyes creased shut with the sting of it. The heat was wonderful but it was also fucking annoying. If her hands had not been tied to the statue she would have grabbed her arse and massaged it. She could feel both sets of cheeks reddening.

Then again, this kind of frustration could be a real turn on. He certainly seemed to be getting into it. His face was pale, his eyes intent, like he was annoyed. It would have been chilling if she believed it, but she knew that he was a passed master at this. Creating each sensation he wanted a woman to experience. What might seem like rage was never uncontrolled. Sometimes he would use the tip of the cane to tease and alarm her. To make her fear and crave it all at once. This time he repeatedly caught her by surprise and made her grind herself against the marble cock. And he was in no hurry. He took ages over thrashing her.

The strokes came in harder. There were lights behind her eyes after each one. Her voice was low and groaning, as she soaked up every moment of pain and pleasure.

She grew breathless. She blinked away sweat that came from panting as much as screaming. She looked so beautiful when wide eyed and confused, shaking black hair out of her wet face.

He's very good at this, don't you think?

She blinked and looked at her hands. The statue was holding her now. Her wrists had been grabbed by large, clawing fingers. Where the fuck was the red cord gone? Perhaps it was just her own body sagging with the relaxation of punishment. Perhaps it was the Satyr gripping her arms and lifting her onto tiptoes. Making her dance like a puppet. Its fists seemed to be tight around her wrists.

How does it feel?

Her wet cunt slithered over the warm marble. Her arse blazed and she was grinding herself against him to assuage the pain. It felt good. Very good.

And now the stone was inside her. Somehow. Perhaps she had shifted position enough that somehow she had impaled herself on the large, hard phallus. Perhaps it was an illusion. But she was being beautifully fucked. Or fucking herself. It amounted to the same thing.

I asked how it felt, the voice insisted. She closed her eyes and admitted that it felt amazing. But she should not be talking to a statue.

I've only watched people do this before. I've never got to join in. I like it. I like to fuck you as he hurts you.

“Has it been a while?”

Yes. Far too long.

“You should get out more.”

Or in.

“Funny man.”

The cane stopped hitting her. She blinked. There was that sound of trousers being unzipped, a belt being undone, pants hitting the floor. He had clearly left his keys in the pocket and they jangled as they hit ground.

“Oh my.”

Cold stone in front of her, the icy marble chill enough to make her nipples bolt hard. And now warm flesh behind her. Fucked from in front by the Satyr. Her master's cockhead poised at the ring of muscles around her anus.

Oh, this is going to hurt you so much...

She nodded, tears running down her scalding cheeks. And then her master pushed himself into her arse, driving into hot flesh up to the hilt. She moaned. The Satyr smothered the noise by kissing her and ramming his cock into her just as hard. She felt her master's hands cup a breast and squeeze with glorious pain.

“Push back onto me as I fuck you.”

She tried. She really did. Of course, pushing back on him meant pushing down on the Satyr's cock and filling herself even further. Her cries of pleasure were almost demented. She loved this.

Her master used a hand to push her hair over to one side, then nuzzled against her neck, even as he kept up a steady rthym fucking her arse. She felt hot breath on her neck. She felt no breath on her face, but the statue was grinning.

She grinned too. She had a little secret…

The statue winked. Don’t tell him.

One thrust, then the other. One thrust, then the other. One kissed her. One mauled her. She was pressed between the two bodies, hot and cold. When she came it was with a demented scream and laugh.

She woke up on the ground at his feet, gasping and looking at the night sky through ocred glass. He had covered her with a thick blanket and a pillow was under her head. All warm, with seed dribbling out of her brown rose and a scoured, used feeling between her thighs.

"Better now? You came very hard, my love."

"Yes. Thank you. All better."

She glanced at the statue, and it was just a statue. The red cords hung in place and she was sad that they were empty. The only thing live and warm about it were her own juices smeared on the over endowed cock. She smiled all the same. Had it been the pain? Had it been some devious narcotic coating the stone? Frankly, she didn't give a fuck.

And then she snuggled into a happy ball at her master's feet, a blissful smile on her beautiful face.